tenebrae
let everything happen to you, beauty and terror, just keep going, no feeling is final
Tenebrae laughs, a low rumble. The sound of it is strange after many months with little reason to laugh or rejoice. Does it sound as strange in Maeve’s ears as it feels in his throat? His laugh is born of fondness and the ludicrousness of his situation.
It is good to have a smile upon his lips. The curve of them sets the dark shadows that made it solemn, scattering. “There are many birds with long beaks.” The monk whispers indulgently. The company of children is refreshing to a monk dragged through his darkest of times. Maeve is a light, a spark flaring bright, scattering the shadows of his dark mood.
Even in her sorrow, her worry, she remains a brightly lit flame. Fire, the best part of her, of this Tenebrae is sure. Oh, Maeve, the monk thinks, do you not perceive it? He knows he could find his way home by the light of Maeve and he reaches out to gently smooth the hair across the girl’s brow. A touch, gentle, reassuring - as much as he could be, at least. He feels, beneath his touch, the way Maeve shudders and leans into her bonded. Their small bodies press close.
“Phoenixes are amongst the most coveted and adored creatures in creation, Maeve. They are noble and brave and so very good.” He wishes for his eyes then, to see her face, to see how her sadness paints and moulds her. “But you do not have to be a phoenix if you wish. You can be anything that you want. Fire lights the darkness, a sign of hope for many people. It offers warmth for those who are cold and weary. From fire comes rebirth. Destruction is only its worst quality, we live alongside it and take joy in its creation because it brings us life, Maeve. It helps us live.”
His voice is low, enough only for her to hear, in the small space between them. The flowers sway, pressing petal soft kisses along their ankles and shins. In that small moment Tenebrae wishes Elena were here her words for the young girl likely more valuable than that of a shamed monk. “No. Magic comes from our parents, mostly. Your mums have passed on a part of themselves to you. You might have received your mother’s link with fire, but this is your magic and it will be so very different to Morrighan’s. You are different to your mother.”
His smile is small. “I am excited to see who you will grow up to be, Meave.” Then he sighs softly. “It is probably time we returned to Denocte. Come on, we have a long road back and many more opportunities to discuss your magic.” He turns, toward the paths out of the fields and knows she will come too; a companion to walk him home.
